The Early Early Night
by mazarin
Summary: What happens after the boys get home from the events of "Good Golly, Miss Molly." You really should read that first. Slash.


John Watson's been in more tense situations than you can shake a stick at. He's been shot at, actually shot, kidnapped, mugged, and been strapped to a bomb. He's confronted angry fathers and irritated exes and the Metropolitan Police post-Sherlock with aplomb and even a bit of charm, if he does say so himself.

He's not ever had a genius detective with a brain that sparks and flies like a firework along normal human experience sitting next to him in a cab, shooting him sly glances out of the corner of his eye right after just basically offering to…well, have sex. With him.

John glances down at Sherlock's hand resting on the seat between them, wanting to trace his fingers down the back of it, curl his hand around Sherlock's and lift it to his lips. If it were anyone else, if this were the end of a spectacular date, he would without hesitation. But they're in the back of a cab on the way home from the oddest case he's ever been involved in, he's still wearing that obnoxious shirt, and he isn't entirely certain that Sherlock isn't playing some ridiculous game with him.

Sherlock sighs and rolls his eyes, sliding his hand under John's and giving him an irritating smirk.

"You needn't be so hesitant. I thought my intentions were perfectly clear."

John's fingers insinuate their way between Sherlock's, curling around Sherlock's slender hand and stroking his thumb. "Yeah, well, you can't blame a bloke for being a bit cautious. I mean – it is you, and all." John turns to the window, trying to hide what he's sure is a ridiculous grin.

Twenty maddening minutes of concentrating on the feel of Sherlock's hand in his while they sit side by side in the back of a cab and they're finally home. John barely gets through the front door before Sherlock is pressed against his back, sliding his fingers around John's sides and brushing his lips against the nape of John's neck.

"As much as I'd like to take this to its logical conclusion right now, I believe there are a few things I'm to attend to first," Sherlock says into John's hair, making John shiver and gasp. "Why don't you go take a shower – I believe someone spilled a drink down your back a bit earlier in the evening," Sherlock swipes his tongue along the back of John's neck, "and I'd rather taste you, not cheap gin."

With that, Sherlock takes the stairs two at a time and disappears into the flat before John can come up with a coherent reply.

* * *

><p>Hot water manages to reduce the majority of the tension residing in John's shoulders. He's keyed up and nervous as hell. He has no idea what will be waiting for him on the other side of the bathroom door; Sherlock's a mystery at the best of times, and a frustrating whirlwind of petulant annoyance at the worst. John chose not to act on his attraction months ago very consciously. It had some to do with Sherlock's not-so-subtle warning about being married to his work, but he also realized at the time he was perfectly happy with being Sherlock's friend and colleague, because at least with that he had the chance to make it out alive. John's pretty sure Sherlock's the kind of man who could swallow your heart whole and never give it back. He's not entirely sure that hasn't happened already.<p>

John turns off the water and dries off, pulling on a worn flannel bathrobe before brushing his teeth.

He snaps off the light and walks into a darkened sitting room. He's a bit concerned for a moment, until he remembers his words to Sherlock at the party: _"I expect you kneeling, naked, on my bed."_

He takes the stairs to his room in four large bounds.

* * *

><p>John slowly pushes the door to his room open and gasps.<p>

The room is dim, lit only by his small bedside lamp, and the bed has been stripped except for the sheet over the mattress. John has to close his eyes briefly before he's able to focus on a very tall, very pale, very naked Sherlock kneeling in the center of his bed, head bowed, hands on his thighs.

"Oh," John breathes, and he's fairly certain he's never seen something quite so intriguing as this, a seemingly compliant, devastatingly gorgeous man waiting in his bed, ready to please. "So this is what you like. I admit it has a certain appeal."

"It's what I like sometimes," Sherlock says, without raising his head. "It's what you expected, isn't it?"

John steps directly in front of Sherlock and places his hand on the top of Sherlock's dark head. The situation gives John pause; he wants Sherlock, absolutely no doubt about that, and has done for months, but not like this. He wants Sherlock just as he is, no power plays and no demands, just heat and skin and sweat.

John slips a hand under Sherlock's chin, raising his face to look right in his eyes. Sherlock's brow furrows a bit, and John kisses right between his eyebrows, a sweet liberty he's surprised he even thought to take.

"Not this time," he says, cupping Sherlock's face in his hands. "We'll play all the games you like next time, but not now. I just want you, not whoever you think I want you to be."

Sherlock shifts on the bed, settling his bum on his heels and reaching forward to tug on the knot of John's bathrobe until it comes loose, the fabric parting slightly over John's chest. Sherlock leans in and kisses John's sternum, right over his heart, pulling a gasp from John's throat.

"All right then," Sherlock says, eyes bright. He smiles wickedly, and before John can process what he's up to, Sherlock slides his hands up John's chest and pushes the robe from his shoulders, tugging and pulling until it's on the floor.

"Hey! " John says, laughing, the serious mood evaporating. "Here I thought I'd get to do a nice little tease for you."

Sherlock's eyeing him hungrily, his gaze flicking over John's body like he can't decide where to start. "I thought you were looking for equality. Well, now we're both equally naked."

John laughs and pushes him back against the pillows, climbs on the bed and kneels over Sherlock's long, reclined body, watching his bright blue eyes flare with interest. John doesn't touch him, not yet, except to cup Sherlock's face, tilting it up to finally, finally capture his gorgeous mouth in a kiss that moves from a gentle press of lips to a deep, full-on snog in the blink of an eye. They pause after a moment, foreheads pressed together.

"You know you could have had me do anything you wanted," Sherlock murmurs, "Anything. You could have asked me to suck you off," Sherlock opens his eyes and licks a quick swipe across his bottom lip.

John shudders at the low promise in Sherlock's voice. "Is this you offering? Because I'll keep that in mind."

Sherlock curls his long fingers around John's backside, his thumbs stroking across John's hips. "I'm simply saying you could have used the situation more to your advantage," he says.

John hums with pleasure at the feel of Sherlock's feather-light kisses against the inside of his forearm, still holding his body suspended above Sherlock's. They've barely touched, and John is almost vibrating with the tension of it, his body demanding sensation. John can't help imagining those gorgeous eyes looking up at him while that luscious mouth is wrapped around John's cock, John's hands fisted in dark curls, holding Sherlock's head still while he…yes. It would be amazing, John absolutely knows it would be, but he's not there, not yet.

"Let's just figure each other out first, then I'll order you about later, if you like," John says, and lowers his body, feeling the warm skin of Sherlock's chest against his own. Sherlock's legs wrap around his, pulling John into the cradle of his thighs, making them both gasp at the sudden contact. He feels the pull and slide of his cock along Sherlock's belly as he rolls his hips just slightly, tiny little pushes that make Sherlock dig his fingers into John's hips harder and rock up against him.

Sherlock's eyes are closed, his head thrown back against the pillows, his cheeks flushed, and John's mesmerized. He dips his head to lick the salty sheen from Sherlock's neck, nipping gently. John takes Sherlock's satisfied sigh as a good sign, so he skates a hand down Sherlock's thigh to pull it up and out, encouraging Sherlock to wrap one long leg around his waist, bringing them closer. They push against each other slowly, completely unhurried, learning the dips and planes of each other's bodies.

Sherlock laughs when John nibbles his collarbone, a delighted sound John hadn't expected but wants more of, so he does it again and again until Sherlock reaches down to pinch his arse, making him jump.

"Naughty," John says, and shoves his hands under Sherlock's arms to pull him tight enough to John's body to roll them until Sherlock is straddling him. Sherlock watches John speculatively, waiting, until John wraps his hands around Sherlock's backside and lifts his hips experimentally, sliding him forward until Sherlock is practically sitting on his stomach. When he settles Sherlock's weight again, John can feel his cock slide between Sherlock's buttocks, sparking off a hundred fantasies John really would like to write down so he can check them off later, so he doesn't miss any.

"Oh yes, it would be lovely, wouldn't it, John?" Sherlock murmurs, suddenly pinning John's arms to the bed and locking John's legs down with his own, grinding back against John's cock. "Feeling your cock inside me while I ride you. Just say the word, tell me how you want me."

John feels his arousal intensify at that low, seductive rumble, and thinks it'd serve Sherlock right if John just took him right here, pushing into his body in a long, slow slide that would have him begging, calling out John's name...

Dammit, he was doing it _again._

"You're a fucking menace, you know that?" John says, breaking Sherlock's hold and pushing up on his arms. Sherlock drops his head to kiss him, exploring his mouth slowly, and John carefully catalogs what makes Sherlock hum, what makes him sigh, what makes him buck his hips and gasp.

In spite of himself, John's wondering how much direction Sherlock really would be willing to take. He's certainly seemed fairly intent on being led so far, and while John isn't thinking of whips and handcuffs, a little demand here, a little nudge there in the name of pleasure wouldn't be a bad idea, really. And yet. John can feel Sherlock trying to egg him on, get him to start demanding more than he wants to take right now. The best way to fight fire is with fire, John muses, so he pushes Sherlock off of his body gently, seeing confusion in his expression until he sees John sit up and reach for the bottle of lubricant, pouring some into his hand.

"There is something you can do for me," he says, tracing a lube slick finger up the inside of Sherlock's thigh.

The corners of Sherlock's mouth turn up in a dirty little smile and he drops his chin to look up at John through his eyelashes. It's seductive and mischievous at once, and despite John's desire to regain the upper hand, he wonders if he's just been had.

"What's that?" Sherlock says on an exhale, more breath than sound.

_Oh, who the hell cares if he has? _John thinks, and slides down the bed to prop himself on his elbows between Sherlock's legs, getting a good view of his cock and the sudden shift in his expression from flirtatious interest to aroused longing.

"Don't hold back," John says, and swirls his tongue around the head of Sherlock's cock, making him arch and scrabble for a grip on the bed. Triumphant at Sherlock's reaction and more than a little smug, John pulls him further into his mouth, setting a languid pace of suction and friction and letting Sherlock's moans guide the pressure until John hits the rhythm that makes his moans cut off in a gasp. The gasps turn to out-and-out swearing once John puts his lubed fingers to better use; and when Sherlock looks down at him with astonished eyes, John isn't sure whether to be flattered or annoyed. Perhaps Sherlock expects he'd be the only genius in the room where this is concerned, too.

John can feel Sherlock's belly growing tighter the longer he works him, his thighs falling completely open and his hands clutching uselessly at John's short hair. It's more than enough to get John achingly hard, watching Sherlock lose himself under his mouth and hands. Enough, in fact, that John pulls himself up on his knees to grasp his own cock, feeling his body fall into a counterpoint rhythm between his hands and his mouth until he feels Sherlock's body shudder under him. The first slick bitter taste on John's tongue and Sherlock's cries in his ear push his hand on his cock faster, harder, bringing himself off with a groan while Sherlock is still pulsing in his mouth.

There isn't a sound for a moment except for their heavy breathing. John lays his head on Sherlock's thigh, dazed and still somewhat surprised at the turn their night has taken.

"I think you'd rather like ordering me about," Sherlock says languidly, and prods at John with his toes until he moves up to lay on the pillows. Sherlock tucks himself into the curve of John's body, pushing his back into John's front and nestling his head on John's arm. John feels almost ridiculously content; happy and sated as he presses a kiss to the back of Sherlock's curly head. He can feel the tugging of tenderness at his heart, realizing he was right earlier. He was already more than lost, and the realization was actually quite freeing.

"In that case," John says lazily, trailing his fingers down Sherlock's hip (because he _can_, now, and isn't it marvelous?), "did you really do the washing up?"

Sherlock turns to look at John over his shoulder. "Of course I did," he says.

"What about that snake? It's gone off, and I'm tired of smelling it."

There's nothing but silence and Sherlock's eyes darting away as he turns over and buries his head against the pillow.

"Sherlock, really…" John starts, but Sherlock hops out of bed in annoyance.

"No. I'm not getting rid of it. I'm not done with it yet." Sherlock looks ready to execute an almighty flounce, and when he turns his back to John, presenting him with a perfect, pale target, John can't help himself.

"You know I told you to bin it," John says, affecting his best no-nonsense, do-as-I-say voice, and reaches out quickly to lay a slap against Sherlock's arse that echoes in the quiet room.

He tries to look stern, crossing his arms and frowning, but when Sherlock turns around, open-mouthed with shock and disbelief, John can only hold it for a second and falls apart laughing on the bed. "Oh God, your _face," _he says between breaths.

"Oh, you're going to pay for that, John Watson," Sherlock growls, and tackles him against the bed.

"Yes, Sir," John says, laughing. He'll be more than happy to.


End file.
